Black Hawk
by thelairofthependragon
Summary: Clint Barton struggles with the aftereffects of being enslaved by the Tesseract, and Natasha Romanoff seeks to help him. More in line with comic book canon than mcu canon; started before aou, and therefore ignoring certain aspects of it. :)
1. Chapter 1

_It came again; the deep-throated scream from the apartment above. Martha growled; she felt bad for the guy and all, but people had to sleep around here. She rolled over to face the window, pressing a pillow over her ears. A dark figure appeared silhouetted against the blinds. Martha gasped as the lithe figure of a woman crawled up the fire escape. This neighborhood got worse every year._

"Barton?" He could barely make out the flaming red of her hair in the dark, but her deep, breathy voice was unmistakable. She flipped on a light, causing him to blink. He was soaked in sweat, having been woken from a dream he could no longer remember by his own shout. Pizza-Dog growled softly from the bottom of the bed.

He blinked at her, reaching out to soothe Pizza-Dog. Her hair was red. The exact opposite of blue. "Y'know, Tasha, it's a really good thing you don't have blue hair." He cursed the words the minute they escaped from his mouth. She stared at him like he'd lost his mind.

Way to play it cool, Barton.

"Someone in the building was complaining about 'that war vet that's always screaming upstairs.'" He winced at the no-nonsense tone of her voice.

"Spying on me?" He demanded. "Am I on SHIELD's blacklist now?" She had the remarkable ability to glare without moving her face at all, he reflected. He sighed and climbed out of bed, stretching with exaggerated motions. She rolled her eyes. "Admit it. You're impressed," he said smugly, pulling his shirt on with unnecessary slowness.

"I've slept with a lot of people, Barton. And some, not many, but some were far more impressive." She bestowed a patronizing smile on him.

Ouch.

"Damn." He hung his head for a moment before drilling her with a cheeky grin. "Was it Steve?" He said it just to see the look of disgust that contorted her pretty face. He widened his eyes in pretended shock. "Don't tell me he's not impressive enough. Oh, God, was it Thor?"

"Oh my God, Clint." She looked like she might vomit. If he had to pick one thing that he loved about her, it would have to be the way she was so completely disgusted by the thought of sleeping with someone she considered a good friend. It had always been a subject of great interest to him that, when people insinuated that she was sleeping with _him_, she adopted a carefully blank expression.

If that wasn't love, he didn't know what was.

"Clint," she said, bringing him back to the moment. "You look absolutely awful." It was probably true, he realized. Training all day, most of the night, and sleeping for about five hours…well, they weren't a good look. Even on his oh-so-handsome features.

Pizza-Dog's growl became marginally louder as she crossed the room to examine his face.

"Shh, mutt," Barton told the dog in a stage whisper. "If you're quiet, she'll forget you're here and there'll be some Hawk on Spider action."

"Barton!" she slaps him a little less than gently. "Knock it off!" She glared at him for real this time, brows swooping down toward her nose, which, he mused, was probably the most adorable nose he'd ever seen. "What is going on?" Her lips always thinned when she was angry. He forced his eyes to move back up to her eyes.

"There's an attractive Russian…in a skintight suit…in my room…in the middle of the night?" he guessed with a smirk. She made a disgusted noise and stalked to the window, red curls bouncing with every step.

"You could stay the night!" he called after her. His only reply was her lone middle finger.

Pizza-Dog fell quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

There was nothing Natasha Romanoff loved more than a challenge, and Clint had just presented her with the perfect one. She'd seen for herself the sweat soaked shirt, the dark circles beneath his eyes. And his hair looked like it hadn't been cut in ages! Although that…that was actually normal.

Since Clint owned the building, she helped herself to the apartment above his. She would have preferred the suite on either side or the one across the hall, but they were occupied, so upstairs it was. After all, she thought, glancing over at the fire escape, that was probably fast-

Clint Barton sat just outside her window, watching her try to hang a dartboard, an unreadable expression on his face. The minute she looked over, that usual smart-ass grin spread across his face, temporarily lightening the blue under his eyes.

"I realize you're obsessed with me," he said, his voice muffled by the glass, "but this really takes the cake, Tasha." His tone was light, his demeanor relaxed, but she didn't make the mistake of missing the steely glint in his eyes.

She opened the window with a sigh. "Barton," she began reasonably.

"You don't need to worry about me, Agent Romanoff," he said firmly. There was an unfamiliar iciness in his tone, and she stared at him. Never in all their years together had he called her 'Agent Romanoff.'

His eyebrows shot upward. "Really? That's all I have to do to make you be quiet? Call you 'Agent?'"

"There's no need to be rude," she said frostily.

The silence stretched between them until Clint finally turned and, without another word, climbed back down the fire escape. Natasha stared after him, wondering exactly when she had lost the ability to tell what he was thinking.

Not that anybody really knew what Barton was thinking.

Not that anybody really wanted to know.

But always before, she'd had some idea…after all, it was her job to read people. Most people were an open book.

She returned to the dartboard, hammering with unnecessary vengeance. Well, she would just wait him out. That was what she was trained for, and if that damned Clint Barton thought he could outlast her, well, he had another thing coming.

She lounged in the stairwell until she heard his distinctive half jog leaving the building. When she was sure he was gone, she sprinted back to her room and retrieved a small black bag from her suitcase before slipping down the fire escape and in his window. Criminal proof window locks were child's play for her.

The minute she put a foot through the window, a low growl reminded her that Clint no longer lived alone. She lowered herself slowly into the room. The dog sat on the ground near the end of the bed, hackles raised and teeth bared. However, there was something about his posture that seemed…off.

His ears, she realized. They weren't pricked forward. They were tilted back, and he cringed backward, as if he expected to be hit. Something twanged in her chest; she'd seen that brow-beaten look on too many people and animals. She never wanted to see it again.

She dropped to her knees and held one hand out to the dog. He moved away with a bark, regarding her with suspicious brown eyes. He looked like some sort of Labrador/Golden Retriever mix. Ever so slowly, he leaned toward her. She remained motionless, breathing as quietly as possible so as not to startle him. Eventually, the mutt managed a tentative lick, and she took the invitation, reaching back to scratch his ears. Slowly, his tail began to wag, thumping against the floor and the leg of the bed.

"There's a good boy," she smiled sadly at him. He inched toward her, tongue beginning to loll. It wasn't long before he was leaning into her, gazing up in adoration. "What's your name?" she asked. A worn blue collar hung around his neck, marked with Clint's distinctive chicken-scratch. She twisted it around to read it.

Pizza-Dog, c/o Clint Barton c/o the Avengers.

"I wasn't aware that the Avengers were in charge of a dog," she told the dog. "And Pizza-Dog? Really, Clint?" She rolled her eyes and stood. Pizza-Dog whined softly. "I've got work to do," she told him sternly. He started to whine again. "None of that," she held up a finger. He fell silent. "Good boy." If dogs could smile, this one was. "Now, lets get these cameras set."

She scattered cameras and recording equipment like confetti. Clint would notice them right away, so she hoped that, by overwhelming him with sheer numbers, she would get an extra day of surveillance. She'd been swiping SHEILD surveillance equipment for years. She suspected that Coulson knew what she was up to, but the standing agreement between them was don't ask, don't tell.

She surveyed her work and figured Clint would leave them a day before finding something to disable them remotely.

Pizza-Dog followed her around, and she had to admit that she kind of enjoyed having him around. He whined softly as she began to climb out onto the fire escape.

"I'll be back," she promised, scratching his ears one last time.

The web was set. Now, it was time to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint sighed as he entered the apartment. Natasha hadn't even _tried_ to be stealthy. The excessive cameras were her way of saying, "Well, screw you too, Clint." Pizza-Dog greeted him with enthusiastic yelps.

"Tasha, this is really…" he trailed off. Really what? Rude? Invasive? Unnecessary? Oddly sweet?

He looked straight at a camera and raised an eyebrow. "If you wanted to see me undress, you could have just asked," he said in his best seductive voice. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and began pulling it upward. He was rewarded with an angry shout of, "Dammit, Clint!"

"I know." He looked down at his abdomen. "I'm pretty great."

"You're worse than Tony." His acute observational skills told him, based on the way he could only see her head and the fact that it was upside down, that she was hanging down the fire escape.

"Pink is a good look on you," he told her. "You should hang upsidedown more often." She scowled at him as she climbed through the window.

"Clint, I'm trying to help you," she implored.

He stiffened. She couldn't help him. No one could. Especially not her. Not after what he'd done.

"Unless you're here for some of this," he gestured to himself. "There's absolutely no reason for you to be here."

He knew, by the look on her face that she wasn't in the least bit deterred. Common sense and some weaker part of him told him to yield; she always got her way. But there was a reason she called him a –

"Stubborn bastard." She looked really hot when she was angry, he reflected. Arms crossed, hips cocked, eyebrows drawn low over gray eyes. He'd wondered many times how a natural ginger could have such nice eyebrows.

And legs. Long, muscled legs on display thanks to those great jean shorts that were just barely visible beneath…

"Is that my Phil Coulson shirt?" he demanded. She looked down and opened her mouth to reply. He crossed the room in three strides, leaning down to smell the fabric. That _was_ his laundry detergent. "It is! That is _my_ shirt!" He glared at her. "You can't just take people's stuff, Natasha," he told her. "Especially their Phil Coulson shirts." He crossed his arms. "Not unless you sleep with them first."

As ever, she simply rolled her eyes. Someday, he promised himself, he would get under her skin. But for now, he needed her to go away.

"Unless you're staying here tonight, you need to leave, because I'm going to sleep." He fell backwards onto the bed, making the frame squeak loudly. Pizza-Dog had to leap off to make room for him. She only hesitated for a minute before slipping out the window. "Shirt stealer!" he called after her. Pizza-Dog crawled back onto the bed and licked his face. "Stop," he said quietly.

Having Natasha around was like having a fire in your living room. It was dangerous but oddly comforting. And when it was gone, it wasn't so much that you were cold as that you were no longer warm. Was it better, he wondered, to freeze, or to be burned up?

Enough with the fire metaphors, Barton.

His eyes were already drooping. The months of poor sleep were catching up with him. He was losing his edge. Or maybe it was just Natasha wearing him out with her and her red hair and her gray eyes and her long legs and her cameras and –

Her cameras. He sat bolt upright. He'd almost forgotten about them, and why he'd run down to SHEILD headquarters. With a smirk, he pulled a small device from his pocket. Pressing the top, it beeped once, and the room was filled with little popping sounds. There was an angry squawk from upstairs.

He settled back down with a satisfied smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha twisted her face into the universal expression of makeup application and wiggled the mascara brush along her lashes. "Week two," she told the mirror. "Barton shows no signs of giving in, and ample signs of cracking." She blinked rapidly to dry the makeup and pulled out a tube of lip gloss. She ran it around her lips and rubbed them together to smear the gloss. "Symptoms include insomnia, forgetfulness, hyperactivity, and paranoia..." She drew the last word out and spun on her stool, one eyebrow arching like a professional diver.

"I hardly think it's considered paranoia if you have a trained assassin living in the apartment above you." Clint leaned lazily against the doorframe, his arms crossed over the Iron Man logo on his chest. A wan smile brightened his features. As much as his wide-eyed stare could be lightened.

"You sleep with your arrows," she said flatly. "When your need for reassurance endangers your life, I think it becomes paranoia." She watched carefully as he moved gracelessly to perch on the edge of her rumpled bed.

With his toned frame and tousled hair, those Bermuda shorts and that garish red t-shirt, so utterly masculine, he seemed to be permanently juxtaposed with the misty gray-purple decor of her room. She'd put a lot of time into this room, as there hadn't been much else to do. She never would have guessed that the most boring stakeout of her life would be Clint Barton.

"I don't sleep with any of the sharp ones," he mumbled. He stared resolutely at the floor, elbows resting on his knees and his fingers laced loosely together. She could read hesitation in the curve of his shoulders, and exhaustion in the tension that sharply defined the muscles in his back.

With the silent fluidity that characterized her every movement, two strides carried her to his side. She slipped onto the bed behind him and began to gently massage his shoulders.

"Good God, Barton," she muttered. "It's like you're made of marble." She felt, rather than heard, the sharp exhalation that passed for a laugh.

"Where are you going, all dolled up?" he asked, attempting to be jocular and failing almost entirely. His voice rang hollow.

"I'm going to a business meeting," she said. Silently, she pleaded for some normal answer dripping with innuendo and laden with lurid insinuations.

"Oh."

She groaned and leaned forward, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades, feeling the sticky heat of his nightmare-soaked skin through the thin cotton. "Clint," she said softly, looping her arms around his chest. "Why won't you let me help you?"

For a brief second, his hands brushed against hers.

Then he was standing, pulling himself free, striding towards the door with a hunted clip to his step. He paused in the doorway, turning back for a split second. His eyes flashed as they fell upon her and she sat up straight with recognition. His footsteps faded down the hallway as her mind raced. She knew that look. She'd seen it in Budapest, in Cairo, in the Vatican.

Whatever was haunting him, it had something to do with her.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint swore with methodical ease, layering each level of profanity with a sense of loving care. He peered down through the blinds afraid that - yes, damn it. Tasha swung along down the sidewalk with a distinctive, satisfied prowl that verged on a swagger. He knew he shouldn't have turned around.

Still, he would make the best of it.

The fire escape creaked dangerously under his weight, and Pizza-Dog whined piteously below. Natasha's room was surprisingly chaotic. The fluffy down comforter spilled down onto the floor, dragging along with it the sheets and a lopsided pile of novels. Guns and knives littered the floor, along with sticks of makeup and little brushes. 

She'd been expecting him, as evidenced by the lack of any truly lethal booby traps. He did trip over some dental floss strung between the leg of the bed and the wall. He found himself sprawled in a pile of what appeared to be clean laundry. Then again, he reflected as he climbed to his feet, Natasha had probably undergone genetic modification to remove all traces of scent from her body. Was that possible? Shaking the thought from his mind, he looked around the room, unable to put his finger on what was missing.

Blue. There was no blue anywhere in this room.

White blankets, gray sheets, purple walls, black furniture...it was all very monochromatic. A cursory glance down at the floor revealed garments of the same melancholy hues. Still, he reflected, Tasha knew which colors she looked best in and stuck to them. He was probably just paranoid.

Then his mind began wandering back through the hallways of his memory. He couldn't remember replacing his toothbrush, and yet, somehow it had gone from being black to gray. The lady down the hallway had complained that her blue folding lawn chair had gone missing. And didn't Pizza-Dog have a new, red, collar?

He dashed back down the fire escape and landed in his apartment with a thud. A quick trip through the house confirmed his suspicions. Nothing blue remained in sight. But! Had she been thorough? He jerked open the stuff drawer next to the fridge. His blue pens were gone. A peek inside the pantry revealed several boxless bags of cereal and more than a few cans stripped of their labels, their contents indicated only by neat, sharpied names.

She had rid his life of anything even remotely blue. He didn't know whether he felt honored, or just creeped on. With Tasha, there was a fine line between the two.

Really, there was no line.

She creeped on everybody.

Pizza-Dog whined and Clint bent down to scratch him behind the ears. He knew that the only reasonable thing to do at this point was to tell her everything. She clearly was not going to give up. And yet, something inside of him rebelled at the thought. Something alien. Something...not Clint.

His heart began to race. Always before, he had told her everything. Holding back was not in his nature. So what was it that kept him from opening his mouth and spilling his guts? Some vestige of the Tesseract's control? Did it still have power over him, even here and now, so far removed from the battle and that damnable cube? Good God, was some part of it inside him?

His breath came more quickly. Pizza-Dog whimpered and tried to lick his face. Clint yelped and threw himself backward, hands coming up to shield his face. He couldn't control the shaking of his hands, the pounding of his heart, the heaving of his chest.

It was in him. It was in him. He could feel it.

It was still in him.


	6. Chapter 6

Natasha knew, the minute she stepped foot in the apartment building, that something was wrong. Pizza-Dog sat near the entrance, pressed flat against the concrete as if he could somehow escape the world by becoming one with the earth. He whined when he saw Natasha, his ears pricking forward hopefully. She stood for a second in the doorway, paralyzed by the sight of this pitiful creature. Then she kicked off her heels and sprinted for the stairs, bypassing the actual steps in favor of climbing straight up the railings.

His flat was locked. The door yielded to the third kick with a loud splintering sound and she barged inside to search the rooms.

Empty.

"Clint!" she yelled, forcing herself to ignore the desperation that now threatened to choke her.

Out onto the fire escape, and a quick search of her own flat. Nothing. She advanced on the roof.

Clint stood near the edge, and for a moment she was so relieved that she didn't see the gun in his hand.

She didn't waste time yelling; she sprinted across the rooftop, not bothering to soften the sound of her bare feet slapping against the concrete. As she'd hoped, he turned towards her ever so slightly. She launched herself off the AC unit and hit him. Her legs wrapped around his neck and shoulders and her hands reached out to throw the gun away. With a desperate twist that let her know she hadn't done enough sit-ups, she threw her body back and down, dragging them both down into the hard rooftop and away from the edge.

Ignoring the scrapes that now screamed for her attention, she pushed herself up on her bleeding hands and screamed down at him, _"What were you thinking?"_

He looked up at her with a wild expression, blue eyes filled with unimaginable terror. She half expected him to yell back, to become angry and defensive. Instead, he grabbed her wrists and said, "Tasha, you've got to kill me and you've got to do it now. Please, Tasha, please."

"What the hell, Barton, no!" She pulled away and stood up, her whole body trembling with fear disguised as rage. He sat up, leaning forward to keep talking.

"Tasha, you have to listen to me; it's still in me; it's still there."

"What is, Clint?" she demanded.

"Loki; he's still got me; he's still got me and I'm going to hurt you - you or the dog or Kate or someone in the building; Tasha you have to put me down."

She knelt beside him. "Clint Barton," she said evenly, forcing him to look at her. "Loki is long gone. The tesseract is long gone." She reached out and placed her hands on either side of his face. "There's no one in there but you."

"How do you know?" he yelped. "You hit me in the head, yeah, but what if that just made it go to sleep and it's still in there?"

"Then I'll hit you in the head again," she said, rolling her eyes. His expression changed from panicked to peeved.

"I don't like the idea of constantly living with concussions," he said.

"Good, because you're not possessed," she said. He stared up at her and she could see him struggling to believe what she said. "You're not possessed, Clint," she said, more softly this time.

Hesitantly, with hands that were still engraved with bits of gravel and scored with red lines, Clint reached up and brushed the side of her face. "You don't know what it is like, Tasha," he whispered. An angry light appeared in her eyes. "I see you dead every night," he hurried on. "All of you. Tony, Kate, Steve, Bruce, Phil, Fury, everyone."

Natasha felt as though someone had reached into her chest and pricked her heart with the point of a knife. Whatever the reason, whether it was because Barton never killed anyone who didn't deserve it, or because he was, on some intrinsic level, stronger than her, he'd never been subjected to the spectral dreams that haunted her. She'd always thought Barton was invincible. He was supposed to be the strong one, the moral compass, and now that he was sitting before her, broken, she felt all the weight of responsibility crushing her chest.

"Only you would be arrogant enough to think you could kill me," she said, her throat tight. He managed a thin smile, but his eyes still looked frightened. She stood and reached down to help him to his feet. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

"You hurt my hands," he whined.

"Don't be such an infant," she told him softly. There was a long silence. Then he lifted his head with the air of someone accomplishing a monumental task, looked right at her...

"Waaa."


	7. Chapter 7

Back in Natasha's room, Clint Barton sat on the edge of the bed, sulking in silence as she slowly cleaned the asphalt from the deep scrapes on his hands. Next to his broad hands, the fingers calloused from bow strings and fletching, her hands seemed so small and smooth, so pure, despite the fact that he knew they were figuratively and sometimes literally covered in blood.

If anyone understood guilt, he reasoned with himself, it was Natasha Romanoff.

And yet - and yet - something stopped his words in his throat, which seemed to have become the permanent lodging of a large, panicked lump.

"Alright," she finally said, tucking the last piece of gauze into place. "Do me, and then we can marathon Harry Potter or something." Clint smirked at the words 'do me.' She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. _Really?_

Her shoulder, having been exposed to the concrete by the thin chiffon shirt that had once been gray, bore a wide, deep scrape about the size of his hand, and blood had begun to drip down her back. She seized the bottom and pulled it over her head in one graceful motion, so that she now stood before him in leggings and a camisole. She settled on the bed beside him and pulled her hair to one side.

When his fingers touched her skin, she shivered. If that wasn't a sign of his guilt, he didn't know what was. Natasha could stare down death, but obviously the corrupted shell of Clint Barton was too much for her to handle, he thought bitterly. He cleaned our her wound and dressed it as efficiently and nonchalantly as possible, forgoing his usual seductive quips in exchange for terse directions to hold still.

The knowledge that even Natasha hated him somehow burned more than the knowledge that he hated himself. Sure, he was an alien infested tool of mass murder, but some part of him had hoped that Natasha would forgive him. He replied mechanically as she inquired as to movie choices, and soon found himself sitting back against the wall, watching some weird cyberpunk show about human dolls.

As the clinky xylophone theme notes died away, Natasha reentered the room, having gone to make popcorn. She stepped up onto the bed as if it were completely normal to walk across mattresses as if they were floors, and settled crosslegged next to him, coiling her long limbs like a cat. She plunked the popcorn bucket onto his lap and leaned back into the bend of his side, situating his arm around her shoulders.

He stared down at her, surprised. So, she didn't hate him? She appeared to be ignoring him, but he knew better than to think she didn't know he was watching her.

"The beginning is important," she said, gesturing to the screen. "You have to watch."

"Natasha, do you hate me?" he blurted, immediately regretting the words. She froze, eyes closing, and stayed that way for one thudding heartbeat. Then she hit the controller and paused the movie. She turned to face him. "Forget it," he muttered, trying to escape those dusky eyes.

"Clint Barton," she said carefully, laying one hand on the side of his face and forcing him to look at her. "I could never hate you."

Clint Barton had often wondered at her ability to lie. Natasha Romanoff could lie the way most people could breathe; even the most advanced lie detectors barely acknowledged a blip. And yet, somehow, he had never doubted her word. There was an unspoken agreement between them that, no matter what lies and stories they told the world, they would never be false to one another. And though he had broken that agreement a thousand times over these past days, had tried with all his might to drive her away when they were all the other had left in the world, still she sat before him and claimed she did not hate him.

And the worst part was, he believed her.

"You are not as broken as you think, Barton. You are yourself, and no one else. This thing you feel inside is just part of your imagination; a way to cope with the horror of being driven out of your own mind. Barton, look at me." He had closed his eyes. Now he opened them again. "Things happen in life," she said, sounding old and weary. "Things that should never happen to anyone, let alone good people. And yet, they happen, and there's nothing we can to do stop them. We just have to keep on moving forward and try to ensure that those things never happen to anyone else on our watch."

He looked away, and as he did so his eyes caught a flash of motion, and he looked down to see her slim hands twisting together. _I love you,_ she signed.

The lump in his throat was a giant frog, and it was trying to come out his mouth. His eyes were lasers, burning holes in his eyelids. His heart was a Mexican jumping bean, throwing itself against the ribs in his chest. His shoulders buckled forward and jerked under the barrage of heavy breaths that now rattled out of him like bullets from a machine gun. He felt Natasha's arms go around his neck, and he buried his face in the place where her neck met her shoulder, tears now dripping wet-hot onto her smooth skin.

And because Natasha Romanoff was the one person in the world who truly understood guilt, she held him as tightly as she could even long after he had worn himself out.


	8. Chapter 8

She loved Clint Barton, but her arm was starting to feel more like a pincushion than an arm.

He had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around her waist, his head on her shoulder. She'd slept for a while too, and the clock near the bedside table read well after midnight, but now her arm demanded an immediate course of action. As carefully as she could, which was very careful, considering her profession, she slowly eased her arm out from under his head, tucking it up against her chest and turning in his arms so that her coiled body rested in the curve of his.

She looked up into his face and found him staring sleepily back at her. She smiled reassuringly at him and whispered, "Go back to sleep." Still robbed of his contrary nature by pure exhaustion, he obeyed, and she napped for a while longer before gently slipping free. She tucked the blankets up around his chin and went quietly into the kitchen after pulling down the blackout blind over the window to keep out the nine o'clock sun.

She wasn't sure what to do, and Natasha Romanoff did not like being without a plan. Normally, she would call Clint and ask for advice, but this was not an option, for obvious reasons. Frowning, she picked up her cell phone and stepped out into the hall.

"You're up early." Steve's rich voice greeted her after the third ring.

"Nine is pretty typical, actually, Rogers," she said with a smile. Steve made a skeptical noise.

"You didn't call just to argue about your sleeping habits," he said.

"No." She sighed. "Let's say, for hypothetical reasons, you have a friend who hates himself and deals with an incredible amount of repressed guilt, and is convinced that he's going to get everyone around him killed."

"You do realize that this description fits almost everyone we know?"

It was a pity that Steve couldn't see the scathing expression on her face.

"Well, I'm talking about someone specific," she said, rolling her eyes. Most people didn't know that Captain America was one sarcastic piece of shit. She did. "And I'm not sure what to do," she admitted, looking down at the floor and scuffing one bare foot against the tile.

"All you can do is be his friend," Steve said gently. "Ask questions and care about the answers." She somehow sensed that he was shrugging. "There's not a lot more to do, and it's slow." His voice was soft as he said, "Bucky still won't look me in the face." Natasha felt almost bad for thinking it, but the Winter Soldier made her feel a lot better about her life. Things might be bad, but they weren't as bad as the life of Bucky Barnes.

"Thanks, Steve," she said, vaguely disappointed. She didn't want to admit to herself that she'd been looking for some magical cure, but...

"And hey, Natasha? You can't help Clint if you're completely drained. Take care of yourself."

"I never said it was Clint," she replied.

"You didn't have to," he said. "Take care."

"You too." She clicked off the phone and sighed, leaning back against the wall and pressing the smooth object against her forehead.

It wasn't so much that she thought Steve's advice was bad as it was that she couldn't find a way to reconcile helping Clint with taking care of herself. She could either be selfless or selfish. Logically, she knew that he was right, but there was something in her chest that hated that knowledge. It was made all the worse by the fact that she could feel herself slowly wearing down. Watching Clint and waiting for him to crack had been boring and mildly entertaining. But now that he had finally 'cracked,' so to speak, she wasn't sure what to do; she hadn't quite been prepared for this, and Natasha Romanoff hated being unprepared.

She sighed again and pushed the door open with one foot only to be greeted by the smell of frying bacon. She entered the kitchen to find a rumple haired Barton frying bacon and eggs in his boxers.

"Glad to see you've moved in," she said dryly. He glanced up at her and then back down, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

"Well, it is my building," he said. She rolled her eyes and trailed a hand along his muscled shoulders as she stepped past him to get milk from the fridge. When she turned back, cold carton in hand, she found that he had dropped the spatula to take her hand in his. His gaze was almost shy as it met hers. He raised his other hand. _I love you, too, _he signed.

She smiled and set the milk on the counter while rising up on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. He tasted like salt and her toothpaste, and she worried suddenly about her breath. But he didn't seem to mind, his hand coming to rest at her waist as he kissed her back.

Then she slipped free and took up the milk carton as she went, unable to disguise the faint blush that colored her cheeks. She could feel him watching her as she set the milk on the little two-person table and reached for two glasses.

"You're going to burn the bacon," she said, not looking at him.

"You're going to burn me up," he replied, turning back to the food.

And, actually, that was exactly what she was afraid of.


	9. Chapter 9

Clint Barton could not quite wrap his mind around what had just happened. True, he could remember the softness of her lips, and he could recall the soft scent of the perfume or shampoo or whatever that still clung stubbornly to her hair, but he couldn't convince himself that it was real. Because there she sat, placidly eating her breakfast as if there was nothing at all wrong, as if the universe hadn't turned itself inside out.

"Tasha," he began. Stopped. Tried again. "Romanoff." She glanced up and raised an eyebrow. "You cannot do that," he said earnestly. "That's not how this game works."

"What game?" she asked with a laugh.

"You're supposed to be the unassailable virgin, and I am the obnoxious schoolboy who wishes to attain the unattainable," he explained.

"First of all," she began, setting down her fork.

"Shut up, I know," he cut her off. "Let's not get our panties in a wad over technicalities, okay?" She stared at him with that placid sarcasm that he loved - hated - ahem - so much. He hated the placidity. Hated it. Her eyebrows were always slightly up, making her eyes look particularly wide and gray and pretty and what the futz, Barton, pull yourself together!

"Relax, Barton, it's not like we haven't kissed before," she said, rolling her eyes. "If you really hated it that much, it doesn't have to mean anything." Her manner was blase, but he saw the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"No!" He said. "That's not what I meant!" He licked his lips. "That's not what I meant at all, I just meant - I meant -" A sudden thought struck him and he sat back, suddenly chilled to the bone. "You weren't just trying to distract me, were you?"

"No," she said with surprising heat, standing up abruptly. "If I'd known - just forget about it." He stuck one foot out to trip her as she stormed past him. Her foot hit his and she fell, just barely catching herself on her hands; her chin cracked lightly against the tiled floor. And he could only stare, stunned.

"What, exactly, did you think was going to happen?" she demanded later as she sat on the counter and he attempted to tape her chin back together with the med kit.

"I thought you would step over it!" He protested. "You usually do," he added under his breath.

"Well, that time I didn't," she snapped, waving her hands uselessly before letting them fall back into her lap. "Dammit, Clint." She slumped forward as well as she could with her chin pointed in the air.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered, smoothing the tape over her jaw. She lowered her face to look him in the eye. "Will you at least let me buy you dinner?" he asked, with a ghost of his old grin.

"Dinner will not fix my chin," she told him severely. The grin faded and she relented. "But if you bring me Indian food, it will go a long way to restoring you in my good graces."

"I'm on my way," he said, snatching his wallet from the bowl he'd thrown it in earlier. He was almost out the door when she called, "Clint."

He turned.

"Nice boxers," she reminded him. He looked down, debated for a moment. Then looked up and grinned.

"Thanks."

He swung jauntily down the sidewalk, typing in 'Indian Food' as he walked, moseying down the sidewalk as if boxers and converse were totally normal fashion choices. His bewilderment and preoccupation with this new development even caused him to forget himself enough to whistle.

It was then, of course, that a baseball bat cracked across his skull.


End file.
